


Easy as Pie

by LunaP999, MollyWeisser11



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Parents, Bottom Severus Snape, Chubby Hermione, Chubby Kink, Chubby Snape, F/M, Fat Shaming, Feeding, Feeding Kink, Feedism, Food Kink, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Friends to Lovers, Gluttony, Good Severus Snape, Hand Feeding, Mother-Son Relationship, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Child Abuse, Seduction, Severus Snape Lives, Slow Burn, Sobriety, Toxic Mother, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, binge eating, fat appreciation, feederism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:00:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28698084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaP999/pseuds/LunaP999, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MollyWeisser11/pseuds/MollyWeisser11
Summary: Postwar, EWE. Severus has been carrying a torch for Hermione for a while now, but doesn’t know what to do about it. He notices she is developing a rather passionate relationship with sweets, and he decides to undertake the seduction of the younger witch (who also happens to be his boss) through her stomach. A little bit comedy of errors, definitely sexy steamy times involving food, and a delicious conclusion. Sweet and erotic and a bit silly
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33
Collections: ENGORGIO  Harry Potter Pudge Love and Weight Gain Stories, Snape Bigbang, Snape Bigbang 2020, Stories featuring Feeding and weight gain and fat admiration kink





	Easy as Pie

August 2008, St. Mungo’s Hospital

It was a rare and startling moment to see her in short sleeves without her stern-cut suit-jacket. It was even more rare and startling to see her take a moment to feed herself; she was notoriously abstemious in her consumption during the workday, always talking about her latest attempt at a reduction diet. 

But the most rare and startling thing of all was to see her eat the entire pink box of pastries left by the caterer, leaving nothing but fruit and rolls for the rest of the office. 

_This_ must be the reason there was never anything left to nosh by the time he crawled in by eleven. Nearly half the morning spread was already gone before most of the staff on their floor came in! 

He raised an eyebrow at her, silent and amused as she lifted the last profiterole to her lips. A small smile slowly stole upon her face, then a tentative tongue tasted the traces of icing, and then a frosted finger felt its way into her mouth for afters. 

Severus Snape could scarcely breathe as he watched, mesmerized by this round-faced mediwitch who had the audacity to be his departmental supervisor at St. Mungo’s. 

Surely it was licentious for him to stay and observe this display of overwhelming pleasure. Surely he was a right bastard for not giving her the privacy she obviously assumed she had. Surely he wasn’t delusional enough to imagine that the rising knot in his trousers was anything except a side-effect of his not-quite-awake hypnopompic imagination. 

It wasn’t his fault that she was as brazen as sin, swallowing suggestive confectionary in the staff room at six thirty seven in the ruddy morning.

Before he’d had more than a _single_ cuppa, what’s more.

He couldn’t wait any longer then - despite his gleeful enjoyment of the sights before him, his eyelids were in danger of dropping to the floor if he put off further caffeinated reinforcements. So he moved swiftly from the shadowed pantry corner to the open kitchen area, cup gripped defensively in his elegant hand. He had an excuse. He was here first.

“Doctor,” he murmured in greeting as he stepped past her, trying to pretend his eyes hadn’t snagged on her plush behind. 

He determinedly didn’t look at her as he poured the tea, but the woman’s silence spoke to her fit of discomposure. 

When he turned around, though, he only saw the ghost of a blush on her cheeks. Otherwise her smile was cheerful and professional. It vexed him, as it always did. The moment of intimate vulnerability was gone. 

“Severus,” she stated brightly, moving to fill her own cup. “I wasn’t aware you were much of a morning person.” 

He grimaced, and shrugged. He also wished she hadn’t finished off the pastries. “I’m more of an insomnia person,” he answered with a hint of humor in his tone. Ten years after the end of the war had given him license to relax his stern facade.

She blinked, and frowned. “You’ve been here all night?” 

He nodded, putting the tea up to his nose to breathe it in. One of the things he appreciated about working for Dr. Granger, as she now called herself, was that she didn’t skimp on the essentials. The canteen breakfast tea was top shelf, in his view.

“Rather.” He was amused by his boss’ look of astonishment and judgement. “It’s no skin off your teeth, Doctor. I clocked out at ten, and I haven’t clocked back in yet.” 

She nodded slowly, realizing he had anticipated her protest. “I would not want the minister of labor in here for the sake of your poor mental health,” Hermione agreed, and frowned. “I do demand, however, that you flex your time appropriately, Severus. I will not have you wearing yourself out for some silly potion. The world can wait for your work to be produced in a humane fashion.”

He gave a dry, single chuckle. “As you wish, Doctor Granger.” Though based on her eye roll, she seemed to know he would do no such thing. Honestly, some weeks he lost track of how many nights he napped on his makeshift pallet in the lab. 

She walked away from him then, and he couldn’t help but admire the way she moved. Her one-inch heels made a satisfying clopping noise on the hard floor, and made her calves more noticeable. Without her suit-jacket on, he could see the sides of her breasts where they strained at the fabric of her shirt, and the slight indentations in her arms where rolls were just beginning to form. Her thick, well-padded thighs and large, buttery behind jiggled with every motion. _Merlin_ , the years had been kind to her. She’d developed fully into a voluptuous, decadent young woman in her early thirties, and come more completely into her own self.

Perhaps it was just his lack of caffeine, but his mind began to wander even more dangerously as she left the room. Some might call her fat at this point, particularly with the way her flesh seemed to overflow her girdle, but Severus could not help but delight in and fantasize of her softness. He imagined what it might be like to throw herself against the convex prow of her belly as she marched through the halls, resting his face between her bosoms, groping her love-handles while he sank his lanky cock into her creamy wetness… 

_Dammit_ , he’d nearly fallen asleep with his imaginings, standing up and pert as a stoat. He needed to get some strong tea into him, the sooner the better. 

To his chagrin, no beverage could erase the tempting images that floated into his mind for the rest of the day. 

\----------------------------

“I _told_ you,” Dr. Granger insisted, her lip curled downwards with such conviction that it scared Severus, “There are a baker’s dozen doses en route, and we’ll be able to administer them first thing tomorrow.” 

She raised a pudgy finger at Severus, signalling him to wait. He sauntered in with his stack of invoices; it was just his luck that today was his monthly meeting with her. With a graceful attempt at casualness, he threw himself into one of the heavy chairs at her desk and lounged back, steepling his fingers as he let himself relax. 

“I _told_ you,” Dr. Granger said again, rolling her eyes effortfully and placing two fingers on either side of her temple. The phone receiver squished beneath her soft chin, and her exasperated tone made Severus want to do something to distract her from the inane bureaucrats she entertained. “ _Tomorrow_ is sooner than you can get any other facility to do it. It’s taken four weeks to get this shipment sent out, and I will tell you, Minister, I had to pull rather a large number of favors to get it _this_ fast.” 

She spun a sensible black pen between her fingers, and Severus began to muse on who she might be talking to. Might it be the Minister of the Justice Department? He was a right arse, if Severus recalled correctly, and apt to be this kind of demanding. 

Her lip reformed into a proper snarl as she continued to listen on the phone. He tutted sympathetically as she took an aggrieved sigh. 

“Who’s to say that I _didn’t_ perform sexual favors, Randolph?” The response on the other end involved laughter and a brief insult of some predictable kind, Severus heard. He felt a surge of protectiveness blossom in his breast, unbidden, and _dammit_ he didn’t need that kind of vulnerability today. 

“I will have you know, _Randolph_ , that some men prefer larger women, thank you very much,” Hermione dismissed, a clinical objectiveness in her tone. 

_Ah_. Severus was right. It was Randolph Fully, minister of the department of justice, indeed. 

“And for the record,” Hermione continued without skipping a beat, “I have _more_ than enough evening entertainment. Just ask your secretary, Patrick, where he was at midnight on Guy Fawke’s day last year. I guarantee you, it was not some nightclub with some flighty undergraduate, but the bedroom of a woman with actual substance. And I _don’t_ imagine you’d like to know who that woman was.”

She moved as If to hang up on him but was accosted by further malfeasance from her superior. She listened patiently, then murmured, “Look, if you’re going to be a misogynistic prick, be a good one. Don’t try and branch out to other forms of idiocy. Stay in your lane.”

With that she slammed down the receiver and turned to Snape with rolled lips and a tense glare in her eyes. This softened as she gazed at her employee. 

“Sorry to be such a brute,” she apologized good-naturedly, then laughed. “Oh, wait. I forgot who I was talking to.” 

Snape chuckled mirthlessly but didn’t offer a response. There was no point. This woman had him by the bollocks when it came to his (extremely generous) paycheck, so he would not argue unless properly engaged. Besides, this was low hanging bait indeed. He was long used to people making assumptions about his past behavior. 

He was prepared to simply move on to business, but the phone conversation seemed to have distracted her. 

“I do not ordinarily make a point to badger ministers, I hope you know,” Hermione said, sounding somewhat less confident than before on the phone. In a gesture reminiscent of the late Minerva McGonagall, Hermione picked up her glasses and gazed into them, as if willing any smudge to erase itself. “Randolph just responds better when you dish it out like he does.” 

Was she _justifying_ herself to him? How odd. 

He just shrugged, noncommittal. Though he harbored a secret pleasure in the fact that she had such a quick tongue, she didn’t need his protection. His needless arousal of bravado and his successive deflation of mood did make him feel strangely impotent. 

“So it would seem,” was all he was willing to divulge, maintaining his impassive demeanor. “Therefore, onto the matter at hand.”

“You don’t judge me?” Hermione asked, not moving too take the offered paperwork. “You really don’t?”

“Why should I?” Severus answered, honest but only because of what he’d seen this morning. She had shown a little skin, so he could afford to do so, too. “You don’t presume to tell me how to do my business. Why should I presume to tell you how to do yours?” 

She gazed at him with a curious, indecisive look, then apparently steeled herself to plunge forward by putting on her spectacles. 

He felt his throat tighten with nervousness, but the resulting change of topic wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. 

“So you don’t think me a right hypocrite,” Hermione murmured, leaning back in her chair with an affected casualness that Severus saw straight through. She tugged her suit jacket around her middle to hide the way her stomach arched provocatively. A telltale glimmer of spellwork indicated that her clothing had at least one liberal application of fabric extension charms. 

Though he could read between the lines rather well, Severus enjoyed seeing a Gryffindor squirm, as if he were a cat batting a mouse between its paws. 

“Regarding what?” he asked, stiff and trying not to smile. Oddly, his downstairs tenant was becoming excited at the idea of Hermione Granger, the consummate brown-noser, being unable to curtail her own appetite. That, and the fact that her body was getting the best of her, too, made his breath catch and his need become more acute. 

She winced, though tried not to lose the beat. “Regarding what I _say_ about healthful consumption versus what I _do_.” 

Severus could not help but chuckle at that. “Granger, all creatures at your executive level have some kind of corruptive vice. The fact that yours impacts solely you is refreshing.” 

She glared, though after a moment he saw this was a cover-up for the beginning of tears. He knew that trick well. 

“So, you think I'm corrupt.” She mulled over this for several seconds, and then Severus put her out of her misery. 

“I exaggerate,” he assured her, folding up his legs and tucking one beneath him. “I say that to illustrate that such weaknesses are not uncommon. The burden of power requires us, as humans, to cultivate our dominant traits and question our baser instincts less. And moreover,” he continued, warming to the subject, “I know many people with less of a backbone would allow themselves to be manipulated into performing activities in order to satisfy their needs. People like Horace Slughorn, for example.” 

Hermione flushed red at the comparison, and Severus felt like he needed a swift kick to the head. He was getting sloppy - surely his attraction to the woman wasn’t doing away with his good sense? Or perhaps his old reliable habit of self-sabotage was rearing its ugly head. This latter must be the issue - he’d had far too few birds he didn’t pay for, and it showed. 

“I will forgive the slight, Professor,” Hermione uttered coldly, one hand pressed against her cheek as if to gauge the damage he’d caused her, “provided you undertake a small personal task for me.” 

“Oh, there it is,” Severus snidely commented, “I may have spoken too soon.” 

“Come off it,” Hermione spat back, and frowned. “This isn’t anything to do with work, per se.” 

He gave an impolite scoff, but retrained his eyes on hers. “What would you have me do, doctor?” he asked, brows furrowed and body tensing. “And for what purpose?” 

It sent a bit of a thrill up and down his spine, to be under her scrutiny, in a position ready to supplicate. When given no choice of positions in the bedroom, Severus tended to dominate, but only because the flighty creatures that threw themselves at him expected Particular Things from the stern former death eater. The few times he’d had carte blanche, however - primarily with women of the evening - Severus preferred to be on his knees, paying homage to the submissive coward he knew himself to be, in his heart of hearts. 

And as he looked at her now, it was clear that Doctor Granger was not the kind of woman who would expect anything less than undeterred worship from a man. No wonder her ill-advised marriage to Ronald Weasley expired so shortly. 

Hermione contemplated him also, standing up and walking around her desk to see better. He pushed his chair back to accommodate her and tucked his feet beneath the chair to permit her room. 

“I propose a bet,” Hermione murmured, crossing her arms over her chest, causing her bosoms to surge upwards in a delicious, hunger-inducing manner. “You identify and present the thing that is my heart’s truest desire, Snape. And in return…” 

She paused, and gave a little smirk of her own. “...I’ll help solve that little problem of yours.” 

_Little problem?_ He frowned, trying to parse her meaning, and then Hermione seductively ran one hand down her front, stopping just at her crotch area. 

Oof. Severus realized far too late how desperately pathetic he looked - his trousers were tenting and he couldn’t remember feeling more embarrassed about this kind of thing since his years as a student at Hogwarts. 

Dammit, he could do with an extra dose of stress - his libido needed to die a slow and painful death right then. 

He harrumphed and closed his eyes, trying to will away the erection. But the sight of Doctor Granger’s wonderful breasts, mounding out of the top of her silk shell… it was all he could see whether his eyes were open or closed.

“You seem to have me at a disadvantage,” Snape admitted, gazing up at his employer with a sense of despair and humility. “I cannot _begin_ to imagine what your heart’s desire might be.” 

Her eyebrow raised in an authoritative manner that nearly melted Severus into a dripping puddle of wizard. 

“I think, this morning, you saw enough to get an idea,” she murmured, with a perfect control of her voice that she must have cribbed off him. 

He swallowed thickly and nodded, then shuddered as she leaned forward to stare directly into his eyes. 

Those perfect, sumptuous breasts were so close… Severus was panicking as badly as a new-born foal confronted with a highway’s worth of traffic. It took all his self-control not to lose himself right then and there. 

What was it with this woman, that she inspired such uncharacteristically wild lust? 

It was a painful relief when she clucked her tongue and sauntered to the door of the office, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll see what you got tomorrow at six-thirty in the morning, Snape.”

“In the canteen?” he inquired, carefully standing despite his compromising position. 

She held the door for him as he gingerly walked out into the hallway. 

“No,” she responded, giving him a sly smirk. “My office.” 

The cold sweat hit him as he stood facing her closed door, and he raced to the men’s room as fast as was humanly possible to eject his previous night’s dinner down the toilet. 

What in all the gods’ names was he supposed to bring her at six-thirty tomorrow morning?

……………………...

That night, he left work early and made enterprising use of the cybercafe next door to his flat. While he wasn’t as brazen as Granger was in her reliance on Muggle internet - she carried a _laptop computer_ throughout St. Mungo’s! - he did not have the same stigma against using the tool that most other wizards might have. 

The research he did was very instructive to say the least. 

So, the morning after his momentous interaction with Dr. Granger, he was back at the hospital at half past six sharp, standing with a large pink pastry-box. 

His supervisor was prompt, as ever, and he heard her heels heavily clomping up the hall as he poised to knock on her door. 

“Come in,” she welcomed him, as officious and businesslike as ever, and Severus wondered for the briefest of moments whether he’d dreamed his encounter with her glorious Valyarkie-self. But with a prim manner, she seated herself at her desk, and immediately commenced the removal of silverware from a drawer. “So,” she queried, raising an eyebrow at him while she lazily spelled the door locked. “What have you brought for me?” 

Severus, trying not to let his hands shake, began to undo the strings of the box. “I must confess, Granger, that I was flummoxed by the task of selecting ‘your heart’s desire,’ as you put it. I have determined, however, that your request is probably a euphemism for chocolate. So, I have acquired the most decadent chocolate confection that London has to offer, as per reports on TripAdvisor.” 

“ _Oh_ .” She seemed delighted, and for a moment he thought hopefully that he’d succeeded in his task. But her reaction was more towards this revelation than the confectionery. “ _TripAdvisor_ , Snape?” 

He shrugged. “I’m not a woman, and historically I have a poor track record of knowing what a woman’s truest desire might be. How else could I solve your puzzle but by researching the opinions of a thousand of them?”

The glint of humor in her eyes told him that he had, indeed, made the right calculation. 

“I like a man who knows when he doesn’t know,” Hermione murmured, and she outright smiled at him. “And a man who asks questions and does his research?” She pressed her lips together in a firm, approving smile. “I expected nothing less of you, Professor.” 

He nodded, appreciative of the praise but waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

She took her fork and gently laid it against the edge of the molten chocolate cake, then looked back up at him. “Did you need anything else, Snape?” 

The answer she expected was clearly _no_ , and there was an almost feral growl in the back of her voice that suggested a distinctive _get-the-hell-out-of-my-office_ vibe. Severus didn’t need to be told twice - he just gave a curt nod and whirled out the door before his presence would eclipse the present he’d brought her. 

Hopefully the cake would suffice - even if he wasn’t there to watch her enjoy it.

………………...

He got a text message that afternoon on his cell phone. He wasn’t even aware, prior to receiving this, that he was actually able to receive text messages on his cell phone. He wasn’t really even aware, prior to receiving this, that anyone actually had his cell phone number other than his mum and the chip joint down the street from his flat.

It made sense, of course - he’d put it on his employee file for emergency contact purposes once he’d got it. But he used it primarily for outbound calls, usually for takeout that he obtained on his way home from work, so it surprised him a lot to see the message blinking with polite persistence as he prepared to call for his dinner. 

_Acceptable,_ he read. _The chocolate cake you brought was a prime specimen. It was delicious, and I thank you for it. Unfortunately, while practically a food group of its own, chocolate remains fairly accessible to me and is not, therefore, my truest heart’s desire. Unattainability is your next clue as you pursue this exercise. Up to try again? -HG_

He frowned and realized tonight would occasion another visit to the cybercafe. What confections were most difficult to obtain in Great Britain? 

………………… 

The next morning, he showed up to the canteen at five in the morning with ingredients and recipes in hand. 

It seemed a simple enough recipe, but there was one element that concerned him: He wasn’t accustomed to cooking things that were intended to be _food_ . Medicinal potions? Easy, he could do them in his sleep. Making something _delicious?_ Much more of a challenge. 

But after trial and error, and making the whole place smell amazing, he nervously stood in front of her office door, tray in hand. 

She was already in her office today, and ushered him in without so much as a hello. 

“Now _this_ smells divine,” she gushed, locking the door and gazing with amazement at the decent pile of American pancakes on the plate. “Is that actual maple syrup?” 

“Sainsbury’s,” Severus acknowledged, feeling rather triumphant over that particular feature. “I’m told to use it with butter.” 

“Wonderful,” Hermione breathed, and she seated herself at her desk with a hungry look in her eyes. 

She began to dig into the food ravenously, and Severus smiled faintly at the sight of her excitement. 

But as before, she shooed him out the door before she could properly tuck in, and Severus didn’t need anything more than her gesture to know he was no longer welcome. He bowed out politely and hoped that he’d succeeded in impressing her. 

There was only so much teasing a man could take, after all. 

…………………..

_A for Amazing, my dear sir. Astounding. Stupendous. Creative as all get out. But pancakes are not my heart’s truest desire, I’m sorry to say. My heart’s desire is rather distinctly British. Try again? -HG_

Severus groaned. Perhaps this required a call to his mum. 

_………………._

He didn’t explain the details to Eileen, instead implying that this was for one of his Cyrano de Bergerac moments on Draco Malfoy’s behalf. The boy was a pouf as gay as summer sunshine, but Lucius still paid Severus handsomely to help obscure that fact from the wizarding world. And it was one of the few things that he ever talked to Eileen about, in his middle adulthood. Anything else just led to rows. 

At Lucius’ expense, Severus (with some insight and contributions from Eileen) wrote letters and sent gifts all over wizarding Britain (and sometimes abroad). The purpose of these missives: to court various eligible ladies by correspondence so Draco wouldn’t have to do so. At this point, Severus had read and written a great deal of mail over the years, and ended up embroiling Draco in one or two exceedingly public capers that made Draco blush in annoyance and Lucius laugh uproariously.* 

Ah well. The poor boy had annoyed his father first by refusing to marry the ‘correct’ type (read: gender) of person, and it was all fairly harmless considering what Draco used to get up to in the shadows. His colorful lifestyle was no longer one that gravely concerned Severus, or even his father too much. But societal expectations were societal expectations, so pretending at flirtations with eligible women was required for another ten years or so until Draco emerged into a more mature bachelorhood. 

It was a case of the blind leading the blind, but Lucius had long ago gotten the misapprehension in his head that Severus was a closet romantic. If that meant the fool would part with his money to enrich Severus’ pockets, Severus would play the role with gusto. 

In any event, Severus often called his mother to provide details and conspire. They disagreed on most things in life - a rift drawn ever wider by Eileen’s tolerance of Tobias’ abuse over the years - and this little game with Draco’s pen pals was the only time they ever connected anymore. It was excruciating to think about too hard; no painfully lonely boy wants to be on such terms with their only surviving parent. But despite this, it felt like pulling teeth for Severus to get the courage up to initiate most conversations with her. 

“Tell me about the mark, my lad,” Eileen half-whispered over the phone. Her voice had gotten softer and softer over the years, and her frame had gotten correspondingly smaller and smaller. 

(A distinct foil to his current obsession, Dr. Granger… who only got louder and larger with every passing year.)  
  
(Which observation secretly filled him with a strange sense of pride.) 

Severus snorted derisively, trying to hide his personal interest with clinical detachment. “The Granger girl. Apparently they are hoping to demonstrate progressiveness to the populace by mixing some Muggleborn into Draco’s repertoire.” 

“Hmph. Surely that isn’t necessary at this point,” Eileen appraised, sounding immediately more crotchety at the sensitive topic. “What with Muggleborns being _everywhere_ in this world, now.” 

Severus sighed. Eileen’s prejudice was showing, and his mother’s double standard towards him versus the world never failed to irk him. In her mind, Severus was practically a pureblood despite having a Muggle father. 

It was this convoluted perspective that had reinforced his adolescent misanthropy and sent him hurtling into the arms of the Death Eaters. It was his mother’s belief system, not really his own, that led him down that darker path. It’d taken him the better part of a decade to figure out how misguided she was, and just as long to stop resenting what the bigotry she bequeathed had cost him. 

Forgiveness was likely impossible, but at least he had some understanding of his mother at this stage of his life. Severus now recognized that being a pauper heir to the once-great Prince name carried some baggage that Eileen clutched with prideful desperation. Of all the old things she could hold onto, one of the few things still within her reach was the toxic mindset of the once-elite.

As a result, Severus had always been Eileen’s golden boy, as far as her words went - he was her hope and her future compounded into an eleven-year-old’s body.  
  
Funnily enough, though, the way he saw it as an adult was very different: in retrospect, she’d always treated him as a second class citizen compared to his Muggle father. 

Wasn’t that a mind-fuck? 

“Be that as it may,” Severus said with as neutral a manner as he could muster, “apparently the girl’s heart is to be found through her stomach.” 

This made Eileen cackle wheezingly. “How banal,” she criticized, and it made Severus feel like he’d been stabbed deeply in the throat by Nagini all over again. “A fat Mudblood? You’d imagine a Malfoy might do better.” 

“Her social standing is more than enough to make up for her...unconventional beauty, as you might imagine,” Severus breezily observed. As his mother continued to laugh, an unusual element of defense spurt out of his mouth. “Not to mention, mother _dearest_ , the child is responsible for saving my life. That must count for _something_.”

Working with her on a day to day basis, Severus sometimes forgot that he owed Hermione Granger a life debt. She never lorded it over him, or hounded him about what he was doing with the life she’d ensured would continue. Just like the perfect Gryffindor she was, she simply let it go. 

Not even Lily Evans would have done that, Severus often contemplated. That girl always kept the score. 

“Oooh, touchy!” Eileen declared, the wheels in her mind turning as she prepped some kind of future offensive. 

“Trust me, mother, that’s one of her very few high points,” Severus said, trying to come off as flippant. While perhaps the comment did not meet its mark in this way, it did seem to stall Eileen’s mounted attack, which was what mattered most to Severus at this point. His mother was extremely perceptive when it came to her son’s heart and mind, no matter how he schooled his features. 

(Why else would a teenager aspire to master legilimency, but to be able to achieve some kind of privacy from the intrusions of an overbearing parent?) 

“Oh, right, that’s true, isn’t it? I suppose I ought to be _grateful_.” This snarling comment by Eileen made Severus’ heart sink to the bottom of his stomach as he clutched for words like a drowning man seeking support. 

Eileen correctly interpreted his stony silence. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I don’t mean to be vile. It’s just… I can’t _stand_ the thought of you owing anything to a Mudblood. You understand that, right?” 

“I don’t imagine you’d like me owing a life debt to _anyone_ , mother.” Severus’ private thought was more bitter: _You’d rather me dead than in debt, probably._

“Yes, darling boy, exactly. It’s not her being a Mudblood that is so much the problem, as your being in her debt. I just wish you hadn’t gotten yourself involved in that horrid mess, Severus.” 

He steeled himself to prevent his emotions from overflowing and surging through the telephone. “Mother,” he uttered in a warning tone. 

“Oh, all _right_ ,” she snapped back, and then mused, “so she likes food, is that it?” 

“Rather.” Severus felt subdued. “Sweets, in particular.” 

“I see.” Eileen hummed for a moment as she thought through her decades’ worth of societal knowledge and highly specific feminine training in esoteric arts of which Severus could only imagine. Then, with a cluck of her tongue, she announced, “You should try Darius Realfeather’s. One time for my birthday, your father and I went there. They had the most marvelous lemon tart.” 

This was a story Severus had heard at least a few times before, and he demurred, “Unfortunately, mother, they closed a few years past.” 

“Drat it all.” Eileen sounded surprisingly disappointed until she thought of an alternative. “You know, I believe Celestina would have some knowledge of where to find the recipe for it. It was too divine. Would you like me to rummage around for it? Then you can give it to Lucius’ elves and they can whip it up properly.” 

“That would be sublime, mother. Or… should I say… _sublemon_.” 

Verbal humor worked extremely well with his mother, and he was rewarded by her throaty bark of laughter at his witticism.

“Good,” Eileen announced with a matter-of-fact tone, “I’ll ring off and call you later with it, dear. Now do take care to not sample too much,” she went on, softly and almost unhearable on the phone, “it’s extremely rich. I wouldn’t want you to take after your father, of course.” 

The idea of remotely resembling his father - in any way - always made Severus’ stomach clench tightly. He’d spent a great deal of effort, over the course of his life, in avoidance of imitating Tobias Snape. Their shared alcohol abuse had been the most obvious similarity, in Severus’ mind - but he’d been five years sober at this point. (A hard-won battle, but won nonetheless). Oddly, for one who professed to love her precious son _so very much_ , Eileen never seemed to care about Severus’ struggles with drink. Instead, she perserverated on the imaginary problem that Severus _might_ become overweight. 

It was not clear how Eileen imagined Severus might resemble his father as a result of overindulgence. Severus’ giraffelike physique had always remained more similar to her own: lanky and lean and knobby, no matter how much he ate. In contrast, Tobias had always been built like a bulldog, cultivating an exceptionally pronounced stomach starting in his late thirties.  
  


Now here was Severus in his middle-late forties, still awkwardly lean and angular, but given any opportunity, Eileen fretted over his diet like she might a prize show poodle.

Severus felt chronically invalidated by his mother’s poor judgment in this area; he was of the sensible opinion that of the two vices, food or drink, the former was most certainly preferable. It shocked and grieved him that Eileen did not seem to think the same. 

It always felt like a sadistically cruel twist of the knife, anytime she so unnecessarily reminded Severus to pay attention to his weight. Abstaining from the pub - and its satisfying ability to deaden his feelings - was a monumental feat for him, particularly since he started problem-drinking in his teenage years. And yet in his mother’s opinion, his greater feat was to remain trim and lean. Which he accomplished only by accident, not through effort. 

Indeed, a not insignificant part of him wanted to put on a few stones, just to see his mother’s reaction. Perhaps someday he would get around to that. 

For the moment, he rather enjoyed the secret knowledge that he carried a torch for a soft, sumptuous, Rubanesque Muggleborn. 

And so today, Severus would not permit his mother to fan the flames of his self-hatred. He had work to do. 

So all he said at the close of their call was “Thank you for the insight, Mother.” And as usual, the chasm between them remained insurmountable. 

_((*inspiration for this bit comes from_ [ _Neither the Laurel nor the Rose by darnedchild_ ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4964134/chapters/11399524) _, less the gay bit, which is my bit xD ))_

————————

Severus' excitement about Darius Realfeather's recipe ended up demnding more of his attention than anticipated. He read over the scrawl of his mother's friend's handwriting - haphazard and difficult to decipher, but his years of being a teacher served him well in this area - and then he determined that the only way he could make certain of his success would be to take a complete day off work to master the feat. 

The recipe had some very delicate bits (sugar glass) that would take extra effort. He felt mostly confident that the payoff would justify playing a bit of hookey from work. 

So, he called out with simple text message to Dr. Granger, stating as follows: 

"Trying again. Require the day off. I'll be in tomorrow. -S." 

All he got in response was an emoticon of a winking face, which hopefully was a good sign. 

The day started off with a refreshing visit to Sainsbury's, a pleasant market not too far off from his flat where he was able to obtain all of the required ingredients of a non-magical nature. Then, of course, for the trifles that would elevate the recipe to the truly transcendent tier, he had to visit Diagon Alley's famous epicurean pillar, March's. 

March's wasn't a favorite place of his - it was always bustling, primarily with house-elves going to market for their families, and humans of the poorer lot, like the Weasley matriarch. It wasn't fashionable to do one's own cooking, at least not in the Wizarding world - it didn't have the same kind of egalitarian flavor that Muggles tended to give the hobby. Instead of expensive sous-vide machines and Le Crueset cookwares that one could find in gourmet Muggle kitchen stores, Wizards were more apt to see these kinds of activities as menial, and to off-load all culinary adventures to their elves. 

Severus, being raised by a witch of noble birth whose last family house-elf had passed before Severus' birth, had complicated feelings about cooking. He didn't partake in it for himself - potions occupied too much of his mental space to bother with anything more complex than beans on toast, or the occasional sandwich. But he did find the activity very enjoyable, and soothing in a way he was reluctant to admit to himself. 

And so, some of his extra effort for Hermione was simply for the love of the activity - though if he were ever asked, he'd deny it was for any reason other than getting in his boss' good graces. (And her pants.) 

..................................... 

She seemed astonished at the desserts he presented the next morning. 

"These... are truly exquisite," she breathed softly, gazing with wide-eyed wonder at the little butterflies he had crafted out of sugar-glass. His purchases from March's had rendered these beautiful little things to seem nearly alive, with wings that flapped gracefully, catching the light and sparkling with the tiny air bubbles captured in the sugar. "They really are almost too pretty to eat." 

"Well," Severus mused, feeling chuffed at the compliment but trying to hide his pleasure, "I hope this won't stop you from enjoying it as intended. It'd be rather a waste should they not be used for their intended purpose." 

This made Hermione pause; she picked up one of the tarts and held it up aloft, allowing the harsh office fluorescence to beam directly through the gorgeous yellow, orange, red, and gold of the wings. 

Then she laughed, and without ceremony she took an enormous bite. 

"Oh, gods," she breathed, her face relaxing with apparent ecstacy. The sensations and flavors swept over her in a very visible manner that made Severus hungrily wonder if she looked precisely that way when she'd just finished...

Oh, shite, these were not thoughts he liked, not one bit. 

He tried to tamp down his obvious interest with a small smile and nod, trying to clear his mind of the silent cry of frustration he felt rising in his trousers. 

“...I so rarely remember how refreshing the flavor of lemon can be, in a baked good,” Hermione moaned, tucking her fingers into her mouth and removing them indelicately, sucking off the flavor with relish. “It’s excellent work, Snape.” 

He smirked. This had to be it. “It seems you are pleased, Dr. Granger.” 

“Beyond _measure_ , Snape.” She smiled at him and it was sunnier than a Tuscan afternoon. He tried to ignore the warm, pleasant melting gold in his stomach that signalled his impending doom. “I should never have doubted your abilities in the kitchen. This is truly a _fait accompli_.” 

This offensive remark ticked him off, and spoilt his good mood. He placed his arms over his chest and frowned at his employer. “You dared _doubt_ me, Dr. Granger? The man who taught _you_ how to slice and dice and…”

He paused for dramatic effect, then carefully pronounced. _“...sliver?_ ” 

She smiled weakly. “You know what they say, Snape. Don’t trust a skinny chef.” 

He nearly felt a vein bulge out of his forehead at hearing this nonsense come out of her mouth. 

“It’s feeble, I agree,” Dr. Granger backpedaled, “I realize it only makes sense that a man so clever with regards to potions-making would be well-equipped when it comes to the far more subtle magic of baking.” 

She allowed her tongue the pleasure of licking the sugar off her lips. The resulting red shine of them made the bottom drop clean out of his stomach. 

“Given that I’m rather rubbish at both,” Dr. Granger went on, sitting back and resting her fingers protectively on the crest of her stomach - apparently ignorant to the suffering she was incurring upon him. “I find it difficult to imagine someone might have mastered the art of one, and also the other.” 

“They are two halves of the same coin,” Severus bit out, though he was placated by her flattery. Well, placated might have not been quite the right word - the heat of anger had transmuted to the heat of self-conscious bashfulness. He tried to keep a stern facade anyway. “You’d best not underestimate me in the future, doctor.” 

“Fair enough,” agreed Dr. Granger, looking rather more jolly than before. She leaned forward again and peered into the box of pastries, then selected another. “Oh, oh circe,” she breathed through the bite, her hips twitching in a subtle fashion, the sight of which Severus locked into his memory for safe-keeping. “But seriously, Snape,” she said after finishing it off, “I can’t believe you _made_ this.” 

“Indeed.” He didn’t feel the heat leaving his cheeks, so he ducked his head down, letting his hair fall gently in front of his face. 

“You don’t seem to understand how delicious it is,” Dr. Granger stated, “It’s pure heaven.” Then she grimaced as she seemed to come upon a realization. “Did you even try it?” 

He shrugged, not willing to meet her eyes with his. 

“Oh my gods,” Dr. Granger said, standing up with all the old fire he remembered seeing from her in the days of her S.P.E.W. project. Behind her glasses, her eyes were alight, and she whipped her hair behind her soft shoulders in a moment of fortitude. “Snape. I demand that you taste the fruits of your labor.” 

“No, no, I’m not really one for breakfasts,” he objected, trying to dodge the command as his stomach roiled with anxiety. Damn it all, he felt as foolish and ninny-headed as a schoolboy. “Nor one much for sweets.” 

“It would be a _crime_ for you to refuse, really,” Dr. Granger insisted, a wide grin on her face that sent his heart spinning a thousand miles an hour. She picked up another treat and seated herself on the edge of the desk, poised to give it to him. “Please, for me?” 

He would have remained stalwart in his refusal… had the impetuous woman not _kissed_ the edge of the ruddy tart before she held out for him to bite. And it was no shy peck on the crust, but a slow, sumptuous, deliberate kiss where she met his eyes halfway through it. 

And all of a sudden, his mind fell into her irises. It was just a quick legilimentic peek - no great barnstorm like that with which he’d punished Harry Potter years before. All he picked up from the moment of silent entrance into her mind was the color of gold, like honey, and a pure, innocent sweetness that made his soul ache. It practically clung to him, and he felt a siren-call that told him to stop resisting, just melt into it and become one with the flow of relaxed energy.

She was clever, this woman, and as he stumbled back into the present moment, the smile on her face was proof enough that she’d gotten exactly what she wanted. His full and undivided attention. 

He was suspicious, but as she outstretched her hand and the pastry upon it, he felt his body move towards it, and his mouth open, and his lips surround the edge of the tart right where she’d kissed it…

Oh, and heaven have mercy! She was completely right. The flavors were so delicate and soothing that he wondered if this was somehow laced with some sort of amortentia-type flavor profile. At the very least, the herb-laced filling had to be _some_ kind of medicinal. (If only spiritually speaking.)

The treat seemed to open up some parts of his mind that he didn’t know were closed off, and all of a sudden it was as if there were gables full of life and laughter that he never even knew existed. So much of his life had been shuttered away, and for what? To enjoy the view he had of his own suffering? It was an epiphany unlike any he had before, a condemnation of all his brooding and meaningless stubbornness; it was a gentle invitation to try and _enjoy something_. 

It was as if he’d been living his life wearing sunshades, and all of a sudden the whole world was in vivid technicolor. 

“I… like it,” he admitted, trying to hide the unintended smile that hasted upon his face. 

“Of _course_ you do,” Dr. Granger said, chuckling to herself as she pressed the food back towards his lips. “You are an absolute _wizard_ , Severus.” 

It took him by surprise that she called him by his first name, but he didn’t comment on it. He was far too close to stammering for his own good. 

“Mhm,” was all he could manage, but he accepted her further offerings in stride, focusing his gaze on the delicate sugar butterflies that fluttered around the room while stealing secret glances at the kind smile of his employer. 

……………………

He needed a nap after the events of that morning, quite badly. His eyelids drooped and his face was red, and he knew he looked rather drunk. 

Dr. Granger just kept chuckling at him, probably tickled pink at the sight of his lanky body supine across her office carpet, his middle taut and a little bulgy with overindulgence. 

“You can’t let me finish _all_ of these, Snape,” she was murmuring to him in a bewitching, low voice. “I don’t have the metabolism you do. Please, just another bite, there’s a good lad.” 

He made a motion to refuse, but despite his conviction, his mouth was open again, and then there was tart on his tongue, and _Merlin,_ he couldn’t fight it. The compulsion was too strong, despite what his overstuffed stomach told him. 

“That’s a good boy,” Dr. Granger whispered, her voice as silken and purring as a sleepy feline. “You’ll be able to take it. You have a lot of room to grow.” 

The words felt like the sweetest poison in the world, and even though he knew it would render him helpless and vulnerable, he felt drunk on the submission. He had no need to lead, to overpower, or to prove anything to this kindly, compassionate vision of a woman. She was here to do that for him...

_Oh, bollocks._

He suddenly caught a glimpse of the clock, and he realized with alarm that it was noon. With a rush of clarity, he began to see his reality with fresh eyes: he was laying with his belt undone on his boss’ floor, she was seated next to him coaxing sweet things into his mouth with sticky fingers, and he was so stuffed he could scarcely sit up. He felt an utter fool. 

Surely this was some kind of sick prank. The seduction she’d offered him had worn down his defenses, and surely there was some gimmick she would spring now that he’d melted like putty in her hands. 

“Up,” he uttered hoarsely, brushing away the final treat from his lips despite the deep reverberating sensation of being insatiable. “The time.” 

Dr. Granger nodded and clucked her tongue. “We’re actually off on an unscheduled holiday, today, I’ve decided. I think you needed a day where you are not busy busting your arse for my pleasure.” 

He frowned and glared at her. Then, gingerly, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. He felt more sick this way, and a wave of nausea came and went, but he kept the food down thankfully. 

“Not taking from my holiday bank, are you?” he asked, tetchy at the idea of having his retirement plans mucked about with. He’d accumulated a good couple years’ worth of holiday pay from working so much, and had no intention of letting it go without a fight. 

She opened her mouth, then thought better of it and smiled thinly. “Of course not.” 

All of a sudden everything clashed back into the natural order of things. Severus remembered all too well that this woman - this _girl_ \- was his boss, and just like _every other fucking boss he’d ever had_ , she’d begun to manipulate him to do her bidding. 

It didn’t matter how much he enjoyed it - the idea of him bending down and allowing himself to take it in the arse, yet again, after so many years of doing so for Dumbledore and the Dark Lord? It made him even sicker. 

All the wings of the mansion of his mind that previously had come alight? They all shuttered again in one rickety clatter, and darkness again overshadowed everything in Severus’ sight. 

“Well, holiday’s over,” Severus grumbled, forcing his belt to concede to his bidding, “I’ll be clocking in now.” He didn’t offer any thanks, on purpose. He didn’t want her to get the wrong impression that he’d _condoned_ what had happened. 

Just because he’d allowed himself to get caught up in some heated fantasy did _not_ mean he intended to let her know how much he’d liked it. 

“Mind you don’t stay working all night,” Dr. Granger warned. He grunted, and tried to ignore the disappointment evident in her face as he left. 

It was hard to do, especially later when he saw her leaving the women’s lav, eyes a little bit red around the rims. 

…………………………..

They didn’t speak of the incident for a few weeks. There were no more cryptic text messages on her end, or effortful baking on his. 

Instead, Severus’ mood seemed to have taken a turn for the worse. He did his damnedest to distract himself with work - staying late night upon night upon night. But it was hard when he noticed subtle changes in his own behavior that suggested some new feature of his character. 

Whereas previously food was either ignored or ravenously scarfed down as an afterthought, Severus had begun to eat a more regular diet. Ever since that day with Dr. Granger with the lemon tarts, Severus felt a clawing hunger in his gut that never quite seemed to leave him - no matter to what extent he indulged it. 

Now fish and chippies were a requirement on the way home, rather than a rare and half-hearted acknowledgement of his corporeal needs. Now he made a routine stop in the coffee shop outside the hospital several times a day, picking up a scone here, a biscuit here, a pie there. Now he passed the time before sleep casually leafing through a recipe book, dog-earing the things that most attracted his attention. 

And, now, he made an especial effort to come early to work - so that whatever Dr. Granger didn’t eat in the morning in the canteen, he ravaged the rest of it before the eight-o’clock shift change.

He didn’t even mind the banality of his new obsession with food. In the back of his mind, he acknowledged that there was something delightfully kinky about it - particularly in how by absolutely stuffing himself to the brim at every opportunity, he subverted his mother’s preoccupation with leanness. Also, there was a strong hedonistic element to it that was gratuitously resplendent. 

No longer did he have to struggle like a stray cat on the streets of life, suspicious of every scrap that came his way. No longer did he crash into bed for a fitful few hours of sleep before animating himself into wakefulness like a bedraggled banshee. No longer did his gut tingle with the bowel dysfunction that came with hours of covert Occulmency against the Dark Lord, nor did he vomit after reliving the normalized travesties in debriefings with Albus Dumbledore. 

Now his digestion could tolerate a good dinner without it going completely to waste. Now he could actually relax enough to enjoy the pleasantness of a well-rounded port, a honeyed cappuccino, or a tea made with his own window-box’s herbs. Now he had the luxury of _time_ and all the attendant culinary benefits. 

Less than a month after the incident with the lemon tarts, Severus was a bit sick of take-out. It just so happened that he had a free weekend. His weekends were slated for private brewing projects, and a regularly-scheduled Wolfsbane batch was rendered unnecessary. (Severus received reliable notice that the werewolf in question, some Russian oligarch, actually passed away after a brutal duel with one of his many great-grandsons.) Normally, in this not-entirely-unusual circumstance, Severus would consult a list of international clients waiting for his high quality potions, but for some reason, this day, he couldn’t be arsed to contact the next person in line. 

_I’ve done enough_ , he thought to himself, sneering at the list of nasty blighters who, in his opinion, the world would be better rid of. _Other potioneers are doing an adequate job supporting the market. Just because I’m the best doesn’t mean I must make myself available constantly._

And instead, he thought about what kinds of projects he might pursue for his own pleasure. He spent about an hour poring over old notebooks, but nothing in particular captured his imagination. 

At least, not until he chuckled over a rather witty comment he’d scribbled in regards to someone else’s publication: 

_...This potion base, barring the magic induced into it, would be better used as a brine for a Christmas goose._

The image that came to mind tantalized him for some reason, and while the comment was, in its own right, hyperbole… he gained far too much entertainment at the idea of taking it seriously. 

And once the bee was in his bonnet, he couldn’t shake it. So finally, he got up and stalked to the Tesco’s to obtain some poultry. 

To his twenty-year-old self’s ears, roasting a goose and preparing a half-dozen sides would have sounded like an obscene waste of time (unless it happened to dovetail within some broader scheme to bolster his reputation amongst the Death Eaters). In the present, this instead sounded like a marvelous exercise in ingenuity, precision, and decadence. The extravagance displayed by such an endeavor was a simple one, but immensely satisfying nonetheless. 

Six hours after his jaunt to the shop, Severus was sitting down to an awe-inspiring feast fit for a family of four: Roast goose, mash, braised red cabbage, roasted parsnips, leek and potato soup, and a luscious toffee pudding. 

While there was plenty for several meals during the coming week, Severus sated his hunger to an exacting degree. It was all he could do to keep himself from rolling from the table to his comfortable fireside chair. 

As he decanted himself some whiskey, he offered a silent toast to the pretty and seductive Dr. Granger, whom he wholeheartedly blamed for his current predicament. 

The way he rationalized it was as follows: he imagined Dr. Granger had a particular liking for subduing men by luring them into a trap of beautiful sin, and unwittingly, Severus had become drawn under her spell. Now he had tasted the sweet succor of gluttony, and become hopelessly enamored of it… and well, damn it all, Severus would show Dr. Granger exactly how much he didn’t need _her_ to satisfy his urges. 

And so, just as if she were feeding him and encouraging him to grow more and more of an appetite, bit by bit, he would conduct the process all on his own. It felt like reclaiming some part of himself that was once squelched by his service to two dysfunctional masters. He’d steal the pleasure of command out of Dr. Granger’s fingers. He would not be _dominated_ by a woman who was young enough to be his daughter. Instead, he would do what _he_ enjoyed, regardless of her wishes. 

Apparently, what _he_ enjoyed just so happened to be eating himself silly. 

He could stop at any time, he told himself every morning as he contemplated the canteen’s spread (which, strangely, seemed to be less and less satisfying every day). He had an iron control of his body, and it only bent to his will - not the other way ‘round. 

If he was getting rather thicker about the middle, outgrowing his trousers at an alarming rate, and developing a softer jawline, it was all at his own discretion. 

(He would never admit to it being anything else.) 

………… 

Despite trying to ignore the purulence of her heartbreak, Dr. Granger had to continue being Severus Snape’s boss. She didn’t seek him out, and their meetings were brief, which had the somewhat intended effect of ‘out of sight, out of mind.’ At least he was less distempered than in his teaching days - Hermione couldn’t imagine how Albus Dumbledore could cope with Snape’s unexpected rages in such close proximity. 

It made her wonder things about how Albus treated Slytherin House overall, actually - and how much of the shite that Dumbledore put them through was a passive-aggressive barb at his least favorite but most necessary staff member? 

But nevermind that. Two months after their most recent encounter, where he had teased her so mercilessly then seemed to come to a rude awakening...he passed her in the halls, and she had to stop and clean her glasses out of surprise. 

As he exited the lav without his robes, she saw he no longer wore the tight-fitted linen-wear that featured so prominently in his younger self’s wardrobe. Instead, gray jumpers and soft black corduroy trousers seemed to be the style he preferred. These did a very valiant job at concealing the growing mound of podge around Snape’s waist. And, more eye-catchingly for Hermione, the garments did an extremely _marvelous_ job of showing-off the plumpening of his thighs and buttocks. 

His palm ran up and down the outer seam of his trouser-leg, as if he also enjoyed the additional heft beneath the fabric. Then, with a sudden look of surprise, he met Dr. Granger’s eyes, and his cheeks flushed the tiniest bit red, as if he’d been caught thinking about wanking. 

“Doctor,” he acknowledged, apparently putting on his most supercilious air, and Hermione felt her own cheeks flush. 

He was so cool, so studied in their meetings. She’d never have guessed that catching him with his guard down would be so… revealing. 

“You’re looking well good,” Hermione murmured, her stomach tying into knots as she tried to decipher what was going on. “I like you in knits.” 

He grunted, shoving his wandering hand into his pocket. “I don’t remind you of your grandmam?” 

“Oh, well, you know.” She just smiled at him, hoping to appear unreadably cheerful. “There’s something to be said for style that stands the test of time.” 

The compliment seemed to do its work; he slunk away into the shadows without another word. 

Not that she was happy about that, mind. But the glimmer of… _something_ that she spotted in his eyes gave her fatigued spirit some renewal. 

She sent him another text message that night. 

_My heart’s desire has yet to be uncovered. Would you be so kind as to try again?_

…………..

He growled at the sight of the missive. The girl had the temerity to ask for a re-match? He’d anticipated that the sight of his increased body mass would tickle her fancy. But he’d also erroneously counted on the girl’s being terrified of him. 

Apparently Dr. Granger was much braver than he’d given credit for. This was extremely annoying. 

At first, he planned not to respond. Instead, Severus determinedly clattered pots and pans in his kitchen, making himself a delectable Yorkshire Pudding. It was only once the damned thing was half-eaten that his resolve softened. It was rather impossible to be stern when his belly was overfull with beef and pastry (and three glasses of red wine besides). 

_It’s inconvenient_ , was all he said, but with a huff, he rose from the table and took the remaining pudding to be covered. 

He didn’t care to admit how much he wanted to show off his newest masterpiece to someone. It was simpler to tell himself that if she _insisted_ on begging him for his table scraps, it would be cruel to refuse such a request.

………….

He didn’t grant her the privilege of his presence; instead he charmed the pudding to be warm and he placed it in a paper bag, then put the bag on her office door-knob. The corridor smelled incredible as he left. 

_It’s perfect_ , was the response he got a few hours later. _It isn’t my heart’s desire, but I am overjoyed to have received such a gift. May I be so bold as to ask for more?_

_You may not_ , was what Severus responded. 

But when he tried to go to sleep that night, all he could do was imagine a delicious warm treacle tart, dripping from Dr. Granger’s plump and annoyingly-delectable-looking lips. 

It enraged him, but he roused himself out of bed anyway to storm his kitchen in search of golden syrup. 

…………..

And so time passed. Severus kept getting the fawning praise from his boss, and he kept providing her scrumptious treats to satisfy her gourmand’s palate. 

The two continued having their regular work-related meetings, as scheduled - but in the dark of the early morning he brought her libations, and in the dark of the evening, she teased him with her pleas for more. 

This suited him fine. She was dependent on him in a way that was reminiscent less of a mastermind playing with a favorite chesspiece, and more of a damned soul being tormented by visions of things she could never fully grasp. 

And as part and parcel of their little game, Severus was noticing a not-insignificant change in his boss’ body. Hermione’s form seemed to plumpen by the day, growing steadily more round in the belly and softening her arms, thighs, and behind. Only a fortnight into round two of their little game and Hermione seemed to take to it like a fish to water. Her abdomen seemed to inflate into a taut mound, and it remained immovable as the month went on. A curtain of flab began to stretch over her beltline, and it inched onwards in a manner that reminded Severus of an overflowing souffle. 

His own frame was beginning to settle into comfortable roundness as well. As fall began to fade into early winter, he enjoyed the way his body seemed to take up so much more space. To look at himself in the mirror, bundled up for the cold, he chuckled at the sight he made. His stomach was a well-built thesis statement, and all the additional adipose in his chest and legs were mere support. It was especially shocking to see himself from a side-angle, where his depth was visibly enormous. 

This change would be a satisfying shock to his mother, if she dared insist on sharing Christmas with him. 

These changes also were causing a subtle shift in his relationship with Dr. Granger, if he was honest. As Dr. Granger continued to ask very little of him, he grew more trusting of her motivations being pure. And as that happened, he gave himself permission to _notice_ her more. 

After all, what harm could be done by this, provided she didn’t know? 

  
  


…………..

Hermione wasn’t much of a giggler these days, even when in the company of her lifelong friends. 

This meant it was extremely odd when the woman kept tittering during Neville Longbottom’s doctoral thesis defense. 

“If you _please_ , Dr. Granger,” chided Professor Lombard, his pointy nose narrowing in concern. “Would you like to take a brief respite?” 

Hermione knew she was out of bounds when Professor Lombard looked unamused, so she nodded and tried to hide her grin. 

After Neville’s presentation - a terribly dull but thoroughly well-researched affair - Ginny marched over to Hermione and strong-armed her out of the classroom while other scholars meekly offered their old classmate congratulations. 

“Dish it,” Ginny demanded, her eyes flashing with the distemper of the hormonal and pregnant witch. “I demand a distraction from the sight of those pictures he showed us all.”

“Those were just roots, Ginny,” Hermione chuckled, a flush rising to her cheeks at the memory of some incredibly-suggestive images from the presentation. 

“Leave it to bloody _Neville_ to turn something potentially _so_ erotic to something _so_ nauseating,” Ginny grumbled, glaring at the crowd beginning to seep into the corridor after them. “I need a proper cuppa. Now.” 

“Pregnant?” Hermione reminded, despite knowing that Ginny’s resolve to abstain from caffeine for this third child was wearing thin. 

“I’ll thank you to leave Sirius out of this,” Ginny answered with a snarl, “I don’t _care_ if he is hyperactive as Fred and Lily, or _worse_ . I can’t _live_ like this.” 

“You’ll hear no argument from me,” Hermione answered, shaking her head and following Ginny towards the hospital canteen. “Not unless you expect me to babysit.” 

“That’s what my mum’s for, isn’t it?” Ginny quipped, flashing a smile at her friend. 

Soon they were at the tea station, and Hermione gazed forlornly at a custard cream at the adjacent display case. 

“Oh, come off it,” Ginny scowled, glaring at Hermione soundly. “Just enjoy the damn thing. I’m eight months pregnant with my third child. I’m not one to cast stones at this point.” 

Hermione pinkened at this, but didn’t say a word as she took the largest one out of the case. “To share,” she lied, and Ginny rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. 

They settled at a table and Ginny leaned forward with steepled fingers and bright, furious eyes. 

“So, don’t make me waste a single extra second of this well-earned evening off,” Ginny implored, “Harry, bless him, doesn’t know what to do when I’m not there. The house will be a wreck when I get home. So don’t make me regret it. Tell. Me. Everything.” 

“There isn’t much to tell,” Hermione said, though she already was reaching for her cell phone as testimony. “I got an amusing message. That’s about all.” 

“From _whom_?” Ginny would not be deterred. In some ways, Hermione reflected, it was nice to not have to be the one in control. As long as it was someone she trusted with her life, like Ginevra Weasley. 

“It’s nothing, we don’t have a flirtation, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s a...strictly at-work thing.” 

Ginny didn’t wait for an invitation, but flipped the phone open and perused far beyond what Hermione intended for her to see. 

“Merlin’s saggy ballsack,” Ginny concluded at last, her lip curling with simultaneous frustration and delight. “You _must_ be joking. Your heart’s greatest desire? What kind of work thing is this, and where do you find one? I swear, if I wasn’t happily married…” 

“I swear, it’s nothing nefarious,” Hermione responded, but she knew that it wasn’t quite true at all. “He finds things for me, and I pay him for the privilege. Isn’t that the very definition of a free-trade society?” 

Ginny snorted. “ _Isn’t that the very definition of a free-trade society?’”_ she squeaked in a ridiculous imitation of her friend. “Come _off_ it, Hermione. This is far more intimate than you’re letting on. What kinds of things is he _finding_ for you, hm?” 

The suggestive waggle of her eyebrows indicated Ginny’s imagination was far too vivid for her own good. Hermione hastened to clarify, her cheeks going quite red, “Ginny, I _never!_ ” 

“Then tell me what it is!” Ginny demanded with excitement, apparently quite pleased with herself. “Or at least answer the question of _who_. You have him just labelled as ‘S’ in your phone.” 

“That would be rather too far,” Hermione answered, trying to straighten her composure. She took a bite of her neglected custard, trying to divorce her feelings from the words she was about to utter. “He just finds me little things. Pastries, biscuits, chocolates, that sort of thing.” 

“He gives you food,” Ginny reflected, somewhat taken aback. Then, as a rush of realization entered her face, she practically chortled. “He _feeds_ you.” 

“I mean, not in so many words,” Hermione equivocated, avoiding her friend’s intense gaze. Ginny laughed and clapped her hands, then sipped her tea with a cheerful, confident smile. 

“That explains a lot,” Ginny murmured, nodding and winking surreptitiously at the stunned Hermione. “That explains a _hell_ of a lot.” 

“Shove it,” Hermione blustered, and Ginny just laughed at the sight of Hermione’s face turning deeply red. 

  
  


…………..

_I fancy you._

The three little words struck Severus deep to the core. He was trying to get through the crowd of people who must have been attending one of the doctoral defenses being presented at the hospital this day. Dunderheads, lingering in the hallways chatting instead of just getting on with their busy lives. No better than Hogwarts students, no matter their actual age… 

_Shite_. 

He made eye contact with Luna Lovegood, who was standing arm in arm with Neville Longbottom; he couldn’t duck away quick enough. 

Stepping into a corner, he pretended to check his cell phone and realized that there actually was a message there. It flummoxed him, and he was not someone who greatly enjoyed being flummoxed. 

“Out of my way,” he barked, shouldering his way past some prestigious person or other. It was a relief that he didn’t encounter anyone else as he fled the scene. 

He didn’t stop until he was a floor away, thoroughly winded and chastened. He opened his phone and read the text again, frowning. 

She must be here right now; it didn’t seem likely that she would miss the opportunity to cheer on her friend in his grandest academic achievement to date. 

Where was she? 

Then an idea hit him. Of course. The canteen. 

……….. 

Hermione saw him out of the corner of her eye, and she tried not to show any kind of response lest Ginny suss out her secret. Thankfully, the other woman had turned onto other subjects, primarily kvetching about her children. 

“Their primary teacher just won’t let up about their school lunches,” Ginny whinged, “I sent Fred with cheesy pasta yesterday, since that’s one of the five damned things he’ll eat, and you know what his teacher said?” 

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Hermione responded, good naturedly finishing off the custard with nary a hint of sharing with her friend. 

“That he should be mindful of the _salt_ ,” hissed Ginny, steam nearly coming out of her ears. “I’m sorry, since when do I need to care about my six year old’s _salt_ intake? The only things he’ll touch are practically _entirely_ salt. Eggs and spam, pizza, cheesy pasta… I don’t know. What am I supposed to do?” 

“Do you want me to write a letter exonerating Fred from all salt limitation requirements?” snickered Hermione, imagining the look on the teacher’s face once it was clear who wrote the medical letter. 

“Not yet,” Ginny groaned, and then looked down at her hand. “Oh, sorry, I still have your phone.” 

She slid it across the table, and Hermione caught it with her napkin, then deposited it smoothly into her purse, trying not to let her eyes wander.

It was hard to ignore Snape in the background. He had seated himself at a table directly in her line of vision, and he was staring at Hermione with this intense, inscrutable look. 

His stomach jutted out in a very distinctive manner, taut and booming and _irresistible_. 

Didn’t he know what torture it was, to watch him splay across that chair, not a care in the world, ankles crossed and hands steepled on top of his belly, gazing at her like she were a telly programme? 

“Ugh, just a moment,” Ginny announced, as if en cue, “Where’s the lav, ‘Mione?” 

“Just exit the canteen and turn right, it’ll be there.” Hermione was scraping the last bits of custard off the sides of the bowl, hopeful to gather a spoon’s worth. 

“Thanks.” Ginny walked away, one hand on a hip and the other ahead of her in a visible attempt to keep herself balanced. 

Not a moment later, another large bowl of custard slid its way across the table to Hermione’s place, and she glanced up to see Snape with an unreadable expression. 

………..

“Doctor.” 

He settled back in the chair and resumed his comfortable pose, a hint of annoyance tinging his voice. She wondered what that was about, but decided it was just typical Snape waspishness. 

“Hullo,” she answered, and gratefully began to tuck into the second bowl of custard. “Thanks for this.” 

“It’s not your heart’s desire, though, is it?” Severus asked carefully, sounding almost as if he were discussing the weather. 

She gulped, astonished he should be so brazen. “While it’s good, I wouldn’t say that.” 

He frowned, staring at her with a fixed attitude that felt almost scary. “Tell me, Doctor,” he breathed, and he sounded like he was choosing every word carefully, “is your ‘heart’s desire’ something you can actually… consume?” 

The flush that rose to her cheeks implied a double-entendre. 

“I mean…” Hermione murmured, trying to not disassemble completely in the middle of the hospital canteen, “define ‘consume.’” 

This seemed to satisfy him, and he began to grin in a wide, almost terrifying fashion. Then, he glanced around the space; Hermione’s eyes followed as her breath got shallower. There were a few tired healers and nursing assistants there, but no one who seemed specifically interested in the two of them. 

“Define it this way,” Severus suggested in a smooth manner, then before she knew it, his lips were upon hers, and she felt herself growing woozy. He gathered her into his arms to steady her, and her body seemed to melt like warm honey into his strength. 

………..

“Hermione?” 

Ginny’s voice was raised and shrill, and the only thing that pulled the pair out of their dreamy first snog. 

“I had _no_ idea that’d work so _fast_ ,” Ginny was almost screaming, her hands raised in astonishment. “And who on earth is _this_? Is… it…” 

The gleam in Snape’s eye and the cruel smile was more than a sufficient answer for the wife of Harry Potter. 

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, feeling lightheaded and like she’d had a whole bottle of champagne at once. She giggled, and took another bite of her custard. “What would work so fast?” 

“I just…” Ginny took a deep breath, then shrugged. “Never mind. Professor. I see you look well.” 

“Indeed.” 

He seemed strangely possessive of Hermione already, with one arm heavily draped over Hermione’s shoulders, and Ginny knew it was time to make her exit. 

“I’ll see myself home, then,” Ginny said, looking between her friend and former teacher with a curious light in her eyes. “Don’t stay up too late, kids.” 

So saying, she grabbed her brolly and purse and made her way out of the canteen. 

Hermione’s stomach rumbled then, and Severus raised an eyebrow at his boss. 

“Doctor, it sounds as if you are in need of some supper.” 

She nodded, her lady-bits tensing as she felt a hesitant hand begin to grope at her soft belly flesh underneath the table. 

“I would, yes, thank you,” she breathed, and he brought her to her feet in a swift, cool motion. “Where might you take me?” 

He gave a wolfish type of grin. “I know a place.” 

She wasn’t sure if she was dreaming. “Is the chef as delectable as you are?” 

This made Snape snort. “No more, no less.” 

It was all the introduction they needed to complete their initial courtship, and finally push them over the edge into the bedroom. 

………… 

“I haven’t… that was… incredible, Snape.” 

The man grinned at her from underneath a flop of hair, and she batted at it playfully. “I can’t believe your ratatouille. It’s beyond exquisite.” 

“It requires appreciation; this is true.” 

She tapped his cheek, then let her fingers linger on his shaven skin. “Berk.” 

He chuckled, and allowed her to make a nest in his naked arms; she drew bedclothes over them both and snuggled close against his soft chest and stomach. 

“So,” Hermione asked, a wistfulness rising to her lips, “what will we do about Monday?” 

He blinked a few times. “Already worrying before it’s even the proper week-end? It’s Friday night.” 

“Oh, well, right. How silly of me.” Her dry tone was clearly indicative of the fact that she didn’t feel silly whatsoever. 

“Alright.” Severus yawned, and tilted his head to gaze into her eyes. “I quit.” 

She blinked, then frowned. “No. That’s not fair. You can’t make me choose.” 

“Unless you are going to have me work in my own department, reporting directly to the board of directors…” Severus mused, then shook his head solemnly. “You know you can’t be the person I report to, Hermione. Not if you want… this.” 

He gestured helplessly to his cozy bedroom, and Hermione felt a stab of pain at the very idea that she’d lose what she so recently gained. 

“That’s _not_ the question,” Hermione responded, and furrowed her brow in thought. “The hospital needs you, Snape.” 

“I’m well aware.” He gave her a twisted, quirky grin. “But how much do _you_ need me?” 

“More than _anything_ ,” Hermione answered, and to reinforce this, she pressed a possessive kiss into his lips. “So don’t you _dare_ suggest that I choose anything else than you.” 

He smiled thinly. 

“I’m not much, compared to a hospital.” Though it was clear that at this moment, he couldn’t quite believe it. His eyes were starry and bright, and utterly the most beautiful things that Hermione had ever seen. 

“If I have to force the old fogeys at the board to approve your department as a separate entity,” Hermione reflected, “so be it. It’s long overdue, and I have a few tricks to play.” 

“I don’t want you to spend them on me, however,” Severus warned, frowning at the suggestion. “I’d rather take up a part time consultancy and spend more time brewing independently. I only took this position, frankly, because I had to build up my customer base. Now I have more private work than I can handle at once.” 

“Then let’s consider that option B,” Hermione agreed, and she kissed him upon the nose. “Gods,” she breathed, “I… I still can’t believe I’m in your bed, Snape.” 

He snorted. “The feeling is mutual. Come to think of it, begone, witch, you’re clearly a figment of my imagination.” 

She laughed merrily, and relaxed into the warm solidity of his body. 

“So, now that Monday is off your mind,” Severus offered, pulling her close and inhaling her hair deeply, “can we return to more immediate concerns?” 

“Such as what?” Hermione asked, though his goal was clear from the direction his fingers were heading. 

“Such as… _this_.” She felt her breath catch, and her body splayed out flat again into a state of intense relaxation. 

“Oh, yes,” she exhaled, and her world began to grow smaller and larger all at once. “Yes, _please_. Are you hungry...for me?” 

“Mhm.” His mouth was full, and she practically swooned into the electricity of his tongue. 

He withdrew for breath, then smiled faintly. “Delicious.” 

And then everything went dark and chocolatey.

………...

A year later, Dr. Granger supervised the delivery of a new office desk while her husband looked on.

“I still can’t believe it has come to this,” she murmured, her fingers lacing between his. “Destroying hospital property through wanton misadventures?”

“A certain rule-worshipping swot would have been mortified,” agreed Severus dryly, and he pressed a heated kiss into her curls. “At least you fired the responsible bloke.”

“ _Before_ the incident occurred,” Hermione tittered a little too loud, causing the furniture movers to cast a wary glance at her. 

“That’s just testament to your prescience as a leader,” Severus smarmed, “removing the rubbish before it starts to smell.” This comment earned him a reprimanding tap on the cheek. He grinned in a feral manner as response.

The furniture movers announced their departure then, and Hermione tipped them from her purse. The cheekiest workman met Severus’ eye as he departed and made a suggestive “kuh-shaw” and whipping gesture. 

Severus just stared at the man with a deadly, unamused expression, and the man left chuckling. 

“I think I have lost my touch,” Severus grumbled, though in truth he was not too bothered by this. 

“Well, who can blame him?” Hermione said, easing herself up off her arse and making her way to the new furniture. “You cut a cuddly figure. It’s not his fault you don’t look as sharp and mean as you used to.” 

Indeed, Severus looked far the better for wear, in Hermione’s opinion. He was well and truly corpulent at this point, though robust and hearty in stature; like a Quidditch Beater run to fat. His body was somewhat sluggish to start moving, but he was terrifyingly powerful once he got motivated. His prowess was the definition of formidable, and if anyone made the mistake of assuming that he was jolly and harmless, they would find themselves sore soon enough. 

For her part, Hermione had blossomed into a marshmallow of a woman. While Severus had put on weight in the past year, Hermione had engulfed herself in it, resulting in the extravagant softness that came with an added eight stone. 

If he was large, his wife was _massive._ And he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Shall we put this desk to a trial?” Hermione asked, a smile spreading from her lips to her eyes. She began to undo her blouse buttons, and she waved the office door shut and locked.

“You waited long enough,” Severus responded, hoisting his stomach up to access his belt buckle as he marched across the room. 

She gasped as he slammed her thighs against the desk, and she melted onto its flat surface with a moan.

“That will leave a mark,” she giggled as he poured over her, pressing his body into her own. 

“Good,” he breathed between hot kisses, “I wouldn’t want you to forget this.” 

“Forget what?” she asked, but before she could get a verbal response, Severus was on the desk, straddling her chest, lightly resting his bare bottom on her upper stomach. 

In lieu of explanation, Severus utilized his equipment to great effect between her breasts. 

A bit later, they relaxed in satisfied exhaustion on top of the desk’s surface. Severus was groaning, “Why, Hermione, did we not opt for the soft padded-leather one?”

“Oh, my love,” Hermione breathed, “your poor knees.” She pulled him closer to her on the desktop. “You said it would give off an improper aura if it wasn’t _all_ wood.”

“How _dare_ you use my own words against me.” There was humor in his voice nonetheless. “I object to being assaulted by your insolence.” 

“But other parts of me, you wouldn’t object to being assaulted by?” 

He snorted, and pressed his nose into the nape of her neck. 

“The _cheek_ ,” he protested, and pressed a kiss on the side of her face. She purred in contentment and tucked her hand under the hem of his jumper, touching his lower back, drawing little circles with her thumb in the soft indentation just above his buttocks.

He relaxed a bit and sighed; she loved the feeling of how his stomach softly pushed against her as he settled into their post-coitus snuggle. Her hand wandered and grasped onto the warm, baby-soft, heavenly skin that emerged from the front of his jumper. His pale skin bore loud, rude stretch-marks, but these ignited her metaphorical and literal hunger as they reminded her of a particular variety of vegetable marrow that he grew in their garden. 

One is what one eats, after after all. 

“I love this,” she murmured, fighting her hunger so that they might rest and enjoy the moment. Her stomach had other ideas, however, and made its wishes known. 

“It sounds like you’re in need of a biscuit or twelve,” Severus hummed, and reluctantly rose to sitting. 

“I might,” she agreed, and the very idea of it made her tense up again with need. “And you _might_ find something else to do with your fingers, while I eat them.” 

“Hm,” he chuckled, slipping his legs off the desk and standing, shifting his trousers and closing them with effort. “And what activity might _that_ be, pray?” 

“You’re a smart lad,” Hermione answered, a flush rising to her cheeks as she spread her legs and hoisted her skirt provocatively. “Figure it out.” 

Severus smirked at that, then went to raid the pantry cabinet.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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